


Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Clothing Kink, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is invited to the Holmes's for Christmas, not knowing what might happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

With every mile closer to the Holmes family estate, Greg could feel himself getting more and more nervous. He had met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes fleetingly when they had been to London to see Sherlock and Mycroft, but it was completely different when he was Greg Lestrade, partner to Mycroft Holmes. Of course, holding that title in the first place was terrifying enough to Greg, but he thought managed pretty well.

Greg pulled up in front of a brick home, smaller than what he imagined, but quite larger than any other home he had been in. Smoke was puffing out of the chimney and it seemed so homey that Greg couldn’t help but to relax a bit. He parked and stepped out of the car, stretching from the drive before he grabbed the bag of gifts he had brought with him.

Greg pushed open the gate and walked up the short gravel path to the door and rang the bell. When the door opened, Greg nearly dropped the bag out of his hands. Mycroft had answered the door clad in his normal suit affair, but had dropped the jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Greg was pretty sure his mouth was watering.

“Gregory, are you alright? Please tell me you haven’t driven all this way just to have a stroke on my parents’ porch.”

Mycroft seemed so utterly oblivious to why Greg was currently speechless that he merely blinked at him. “Your arms,” he mumbled, finally able to get his mouth to work. Mycroft stood there in all of his resplendent glory, a crème coloured shirt tucked into khaki trousers, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A deep crimson tie was tucked into a vest that matched Mycroft’s trousers, the back made of smooth navy tinted silk.

Mycroft looked almost affronted at Greg’s comment and he folded his arms across his chest. “What pray tell are you talking about?”

Greg finally shook his head clear, licking at his lips as he imagined peeling away Mycroft’s clothing slowly. “Sorry, I’m just not used to seeing you so casual.”

Are you suggesting that me in my dressing gown is not casual enough for you?” Mycroft had lowered his voice and Greg felt uneasy at the idea of his (possibly) future in-laws knowing about the various states of undress Greg had seen their son in.

“Not at all,” Greg grinned, stepping into the home, “you just look so normal right now.”

“Please don’t make me drug you,” Sherlock droned from the corner, slouched down in a chair at the kitchen table.

“I had the punch tested, we will not have a repeat of that,” Mycroft said mildly enough to anyone that couldn’t hear the unspoken threat in his voice.

“Gregory!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed as she entered the kitchen, “it’s so wonderful to properly meet you.”

“Greg please,” he grinned as she enveloped him in a hug.

“Greg it is then,” she smiled, holding him out at arm’s length. “Care for a cuppa or some punch?”

“Punch is fine, thank you.”

He glanced over at Mycroft, who was watching the interaction with a soft smile on his face.

“Would you believe me if I told you that once at Christmas Mycroft told me that losing me would break his heart?” Sherlock asked from the chair.

“Please note that this was while I was drugged because of dear Sherlock,’ Mycroft frowned over at the offending person.

“Yes, which meant that you were being particularly honest that day.”

“Well I think that’s good,” Greg cut in before they could start arguing properly. “Both of you need to tell each other you care every now and then.”

“Sentiment is for fools,” Sherlock grumbled, looking at the table.

Mycroft looked over at Greg, smiling warmly before addressing his brother. “Sherlock, sometimes I’m wrong about things.”

Sherlock huffed, petulantly rolling his eyes. “Then you are a fool.”

“That would make you one as well you know,” John laughed, entering the kitchen. “Greg, good to see you mate. Sherlock, sit up properly, feet don’t belong on the furniture.”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged fond smiles as Sherlock huffed before acquiescing to John’s command.

“Greg dear, Mycroft says you’re a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, do you enjoy it?” Mrs. Holmes asked as she pressed a glass of punch into Greg’s hand.

“I do, very much so,” Greg replied. “Sherlock often helps me out when we get stuck on a case.”

“Which is more often than not,” Sherlock cut in, receiving a nudge from John.

Greg shook his head affectionately, turning to Mrs. Holmes. “It’s more of the helping people thing that really makes me happy. Knowing I make a difference keeps me going from day to day.”

“Lestrade,” Mrs. Holmes hummed, thinking to herself. “That is French is it not?”

“Yes ma’am,” Greg grinned, sipping at the punch. “My father was half French, my grandpapa full French and grandmere was Swedish. They owned a café. When da met mum, they fell in love and moved to London with hopes of one day opening a bakery. It never happened, but they were fantastic cooks.”

Mrs. Holmes grinned mischievously, reminding Greg of Sherlock on a case. “Would you be a dear and help an old woman out with the baking then?”

“Mother, I was going to show Gregory around,” Mycroft sighed.

“Hush now dear and take your father some brandy, then you and Sherlock should find a way to keep young doctor Watson entertained.”

“I do not think Sherlock needs my help in the least on that count,” Mycroft huffed under his breath, causing Greg to flash a grin at him as Sherlock and John both flushed, ducking their heads simultaneously.

“Mycroft, that was uncalled for,” Mrs. Holmes fussed, shooting an exasperated glance at her son. “Need I ask you about the more private details of your and Gregory’s relationship?”

“Come along Sherlock, perhaps the three of us could play Cleudo.” Mycroft said quickly, turning towards the front room, a flush highlighting his cheeks.

“Never in my life again will I play that with him,” John crowed as the trio set off for the living room. “Perhaps Monopoly, but not Cleudo!”

“They’re always on about something, aren’t they?” Mrs. Holmes shook her head as she handed Greg an apron. “It’s a bit over-the-top,” she smiled, pointing at the Union Jack emblazoned upon it, “but it’s better than you wearing the pink lace one.”

Greg had to stop his mind from derailing and picturing himself standing in Mycroft’s immaculate kitchen in nothing more than a frilly pink apron before Mrs. Holmes deduced his very thoughts and cuffed him on the head for soiling her son. “So, Mrs. Holmes, what are we making?”

“Please, do call me Violet dear,” she smiled softly, rolling the dough out before him. “Have you ever made pasties?”

“Does the Queen live in Buckingham?” Greg replied, grinning.

Violet paused for a moment before laughing quietly. “No wonder Mycroft’s lightened up so much lately, you are quite the influence on him.”

Greg took the dough from her, pinching off pieces to smooth out. “He’s taught me a few things himself.”

Mycroft leaned against the door unseen, having slipped away from where John and Sherlock were arguing over the rules of Monopoly. His breath caught as he took in the sight of his partner standing elbow to elbow with his mother in her kitchen, Greg’s sleeves rolled up, his large, warm hands covered in flour.

Mycroft swallowed thickly as Greg laughed, the sound filling the kitchen and Mycroft realized he never wanted that sound, or the man who made it, to leave his life. Mycroft had been so alone and then Greg had waltzed in unannounced, pushing away every preconceived notion Mycroft had had of the man.

Greg had done what no one else could, not even Mycroft if he was fully honest with himself. Gregory, his Gregory standing there and making pasties of all things arm to arm with Mycroft’s mother, had taken Sherlock, the feral, wild thing that had been more interested in drugs than his own intellect, and turned him into a reputable member of the public, and even more shockingly, an honorary member of Scotland Yard.

Mycroft wasn’t sure if he had ever thanked Gregory properly for all he had done for Sherlock and mused to himself about a possible holiday to Venice to make up for lost time.

“Do you think you two will ever get married?” Violet asked, breaking into both Mycroft and Greg’s thoughts. Mycroft stood there, still as the statue of David in the Louvre as he awaited Greg’s answer. It was true, Mycroft had thought about asking, but he was terrified of Gregory saying no, of realizing that it would never work out between them that he had shoved that away in parts of his mind he could easily control.

Greg didn’t have to think about his answer. “I do hope so Mrs. Hol- Violet. I adore Myc so much, I love him, I really do. But I don’t want him to think I want him to put me before his work, you know?”

Violet shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “You two are a set match you are, bookends of the same soul as my grandmother would say. Mycroft already puts you before his work, you just don’t see it. But I do. I see it in how he looks at you, how much more relaxed he is, how he’s stopped carrying on about the latest diet fad. You ground him Gregory, and I’d like to thank you for that. He loves you.”

Greg smiled brilliantly. “That much I do know. The first time he told me that, we were at some silly party he had been forced into going to and he had taken me as his plus one. He usually took Anthea, and I was alright with that because if word got around that Mycroft was dating a DI, things could get messy. But he had come home the week before, weary and upset and had blurted out that he wanted me to go because the bloody PM had just been caught snogging some bloke in the men’s and if the PM could be gay then so could he. So we went and the world kept on turning. And that night as we rode home in the car, he told me he loved me and I think that’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Mycroft felt as if his heart was seven sizes bigger than it should be and he returned quietly to where Sherlock and John were sitting with his father, quietly playing Monopoly and looking very much like they had been sternly reprimanded. “I plan on asking Gregory to marry me,” he announced suddenly, shocking the group into looking up at him, well, almost the whole group.

“I was hoping you would get on, watching you flounder about was getting quite tedious,” Sherlock drawled as he stared at the board, earning him a stern look from his father.

“At least one of you has some sense,” Mr. Holmes replied, looking clearly between Sherlock and John, the latter of whom was turning a shade of puce Mycroft wasn’t sure he had seen before.

“Father, I was hoping to keep it a secret, as I was worried that my question would be answered in the negative, but recent evidence has come to light to suggest that my dearest Gregory would be quite amicable to my proposal.”

“Well son, if you’re looking for my approval, you have it in spades. Gregory is a fine young man and he makes you happy, that’s what’s important.”

Mycroft nodded, hurrying back into the kitchen where it seemed Gregory and Violet were in deep conversation. Greg looked up when the floor creaked softly and sent a warm smile to Mycroft as their eyes met across the room.

In that moment Mycroft had not a doubt in the world that Gregory would say yes. 


End file.
